


Devotional

by 0plus2equals1



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Armor Kink, Bloodplay, Light Bondage, Masochism, gender neutral chosen undead, more questionable use of the covenant system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 19:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11584416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0plus2equals1/pseuds/0plus2equals1
Summary: The Chosen Undead finds alternative methods to sate Lautrec's need for humanity.





	Devotional

**Author's Note:**

> just pretend that someone in the same plane of existence as you can pick up your bloodstain/humanity when you die. please don't make my porn have to plot harder

The Chosen Undead approaches the golden-clad knight with growing curiosity. Lautrec sits across from the firekeeper beneath the bonfire, ambiguous as to if he is keeping watch on her or for her. He turns and looks at the undead, the flat planes of his helm offering no expression.

“I was wondering,” they finally say. “What caused you to be locked in that cell in the first place?”

“Is that your business?” He’s gruff, but they’re relieved to hear some dry humor in his tone. They shrug in response.

“I have a few theories about it. That dead firekeeper in the church…” They trail off, trying to read his posture for any tells. Finding nothing, they continue. “How is it that you express your devotion to Fina, Knight Lautrec?”

He rises to his feet. The undead tenses until they realize that he isn’t reaching for his weapons.

“Let’s walk, shall we? No need to discuss this in front of her.”

They steel themselves and nod. He strolls to the stairwell leading to the ruins of New Londo and the undead follows. In the seclusion of the elevator chamber, Lautrec turns to face them with a tense grip on the handles of his shotels. “What exactly is it that you’re accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” they say quickly. “I just don’t want to have to deal with a fire-less Firelink Shrine. It would be incredibly inconvenient, you know.”

Lautrec steps towards the undead, but they hold their ground and speak without wavering. “I want to know how you show your devotion to Fina. If it doesn’t involve firekeepers in any way, then I have no more questions for you.”

Lautrec sounds as if he is speaking through gritted teeth. “Much like any covenant, I offer her gathered humanity. I will say that firekeepers are excellent sources of humanity, and most are miserable with their lot in life. I trust that you can make the connection.”

“So you did kill her,” they say quietly. “Then you have plans to kill the firekeeper of the Shrine?”

“Are you here to stop me? Trying to prove yourself a hero?” The undead can tell that he’s itching to draw his weapons.

Shaking their head, the undead holds up their hands in supplication. “I don’t want any more blood spilled, to be honest. I have more humanity than I know what to do with most of the time. How about a deal—I give you my extra humanity upon the promise that you’ll leave that poor firekeeper alone?”

“And how do you plan on giving that humanity to me? I’m no covenant leader; I have no altar for you to place it upon. I’d have to kill you,” he says with a laugh.

They reply simply with a shrug.

“Firekeepers have a whole host of humanity within them,” he retorts. “How much could you possibly give me that would equal the value of her soul?”

“I’ll give it to you as I find it. I already gain some working for my covenant; I can split my covenant offerings with my dues to you.” The undead smiles nervously. “You can think of me as just another sacrifice to Fina.”

“You seem awfully enthused about this idea,” he replies.

They offer another shrug. “It just seems like it would solve everyone’s problems.”

The twin shotels hook beneath their arms and pin them to the wall. The sharp edges dig into the gaps of their leather armor and they struggle to stay silent as one draws blood. Lautrec’s helm draws close to their freshly human face, as if to inspect them.

“The fascinating thing about us undead,” he says lowly, “is that we just keep coming back to do the same thing, over and over, if it so pleases us. Say I did sacrifice you to Fina. Could I really expect to find you here waiting like lamb for slaughter again?”

A whimper escapes the undead as the blade cuts deeper.

“How many times until the desire would be sated, hm?” The gilded arms on his chest press against them uncomfortably. “Or would you go hollow first?”

Their face flushes red, whether with anger or embarrassment they are not sure. The shotel that had been cutting them is pulled away, but the respite is brief. Now the outer curve of the blade is held at their throat.

“What do you prefer? Quick and painless, or would you rather I take my time?”

They don’t dare speak. After a few moments, he pulls the blade away. “No? Too afraid?”

The undead shakes their head and struggles to find their voice. “Do as you wish.”

“Hm.” He pulls away the blades and the undead slumps against the wall. “I suppose we can try to do it with honor, then, since you insist on being a hero. Take off your armor and lie down. No need to ruin your...” He gestures dismissively at the undead’s hodgepodge gear.

With trembling fingers, they unlace their straps and remove the leather and padding. The torn rags they have on underneath leaves them shivering in the cool air. The stone floor chills their skin as they lie down.

Lautrec picks up the undead’s own sword and stands at their side. Shivering, the undead shuts their eyes and waits.

They hear metal clink on stone as he kneels at their side, as if in prayer. The undead cracks one eye open and sees the tip of their sword held directly over their heart.

The sword pierces their ribs and they don’t even make a sound. Dying is familiar to them now; the flames of a bonfire come into view. The mail-garbed crestfallen warrior glances at them with bored indifference.

The undead releases a long sigh. After hurriedly checking that their equipment is all in place, they walk briskly to the spot where Lautrec usually sits. They catch him returning from the elevator chamber, shotels still in hand.

“Did it work?” they ask him, worry and curiosity gnawing at their thoughts.

“You’ve been running about with ten humanities on you?” Lautrec’s tone is close to teasing as he gets comfortable in his usual patch of grass. “I suppose you should be glad that someone as kind as I was here to take it.”

The undead smiles, relieved. “Wonderful. So it’s an agreement, then? I’ll bring you ten humanity the next chance I get, and you leave the firekeeper be.”

“If you don’t tarry,” he replies. “Whatever your ‘next chance’ may be, it would be wise to not let me become impatient.”

Their smile falls. “Ah. I see. I’ll be back, before…” They purse their lips, unsure of how to measure the passage of time in Lordran in a reliable manner. “I’ll be back soon.”

As the undead turns to leave, Lautrec speaks once more.

“Be careful out there. I’d hate for you to go hollow when you make such a good lamb.”

* * *

When the undead returns, they find Lautrec absent from his usual spot; instead, he stands at the entrance to the elevator chamber.

The ritual repeats, his hunger is temporarily sated, and the Undead leaves in search of more humanity. When not seeking ways to the second Bell of Awakening they travel between worlds and help others in jolly cooperation.

Each time they reunite the undead feels something more than mere trepidation at being killed; there’s something about the precision Lautrec uses to restart their life that makes them curious about what would happen if he was using his shotels instead of their simple straightsword. The wild impulse to jerk away from the killing blow, not out of self-preservation but instead to draw out the process, is one they have to constantly push away.

They’ve returned a half-dozen times when Lautrec abruptly laughs as they’re disrobing. They pause, halfway through removing a chestplate, and stare at him. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. I’ve just been putting some thought into this…ceremony we’ve created.”

The undead furrows their eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Unless the case is just that you’re just exceptionally dim, I feel that you have ulterior motives for not arguing with me about our arrangement. For example,” he says, waving a gauntleted hand, “You could have demanded to give the humanity directly to Fina instead of me. I had plans to disagree, as I don’t believe she would grace someone of your ilk such a direct connection, yet you raised no protest.”

The undead opens their mouth to respond, but Lautrec holds up a finger. “Ah. I’m not finished.”

Their mouth shuts. Lautrec’s tone is smug. “It’s quite sad, really. Creating this elaborate performance when you’re so painfully obvious.”

They blink in confusion, and he laughs. “Unless you’re simply being polite. Are you one of those rare kind souls, truly looking out for the welfare of others? Like…that poor firekeeper, for example?”

The undead frowns, but they do not speak.

“Or…” Lautrec steps forward, closing the distance between them. The undead’s mouth is set in a firm line as he grasps the collar of their undershirt and pulls them close.

“You’re just depraved,” he finally says, twisting his grip so that the undead has to stand on their toes.

Their face is set to a careful blankness, but the tinge in their cheeks is telltale.

“Goodness.” He releases his grip and shoves them away, sending them stumbling. “And I was wondering how you had managed to keep from going hollow.”

“What are you talking about—”

He pushes them again, pressing down harshly on their shoulders. They wince as their knees hit against the stone.

“Consider yourself lucky.” His hand entwines in their hair and scrapes against their scalp. “I’m willing to indulge you.”

Shame twists at their insides. “My intent was not to—”

“Your _intent_ no longer interests me.”

“The firekeeper—I wanted nothing more than to keep her safe, and this merely keeps everyone happy.”

“No sane man would be happy with this arrangement. No sane man remains happy in _this_ world.” His voice is low and harsh. “Don’t lie to me. Do you _enjoy_ this?”

They do not answer, cannot answer. Their thoughts run circles with justifications and excuses. Just because they felt the stirrings of pleasure during battle—bloodlust, they always thought, not _actual_ lust—and just because Knight Lautrec had such an ease with weaponry that they had been enthralled with ever since they had met him—

The silence stretches too long. He smacks them. They emit a quiet sound of surprise in response to both the impact and the heavy heat that flares and settles in their groin.

His tone is dangerously soft. "Tell me what you want me to do."

The undead is struggling to think past the warm feeling that they’re sinking in. "Could...could you hit me again? Across the face," they clarify, and within seconds a metal gauntlet crashes into their cheek. Their skin stings from the impact.

"A-again." They spit out the request, and their head is wrenched to the side. He smacks at the undead a few more times unprompted.

The undead is sure that their face is red both from being hit and from something far more embarrassing.

Metal forces its way past their lips and they open their mouth obediently. His armor-plated hand grips their jaw and pushes, forcing them to lie with their back on the floor. Lautrec kneels over the undead, his knees jabbing harshly into their sides. He pulls his hand from their mouth and flicks off the drool. The weight of him on their chest is making it hard for the undead to breathe.

He places his hand on their throat and tilts his helm questioningly.

“Mmhm.” They manage to choke out their assent, and his fingers start to squeeze. His thumb is digging into their windpipe. As their chest heaves beneath him, his grip loosens for just a moment. The undead gasps in half a breath before he tightens again. Stars burst in their vision as even the dim light of the chamber fades away.

Finally, Lautrec pulls his hand away, and the undead splutters and floods their lungs with much-needed air. He rises to his feet and stands over them, watching as they recover and clutch at their aching neck. When they seem finished, he speaks breathily with his hands resting on his hips. "It isn't fair if you're the only one having fun, hm?"

Their eyes widen as he unbuckles his armor. Both the metal covers and leather pleats are cast aside. He pulls himself free, and they take notice that he's already half-hard.

As they rise to their knees, the undead reaches out and gently grasps the length. Lautrec makes a sound of approval. Emboldened, the undead strokes it a few times before taking it in their mouth.

Unfortunately, they are now at a loss as to what to do. They bob their head tentatively, not venturing too far down his shaft. After a minute of their fumbling, Lautrec grips their head in his hands and shoves them between his thighs. The undead grabs hold of his hips in an attempt to stabilize their balance, and he thrusts forward in response. They let out a muffled moan as he fills their mouth. He holds the undead in place for a few moments before pulling on their hair and the undead slides back, leaving behind a slick of spit. He readjusts his grip on their head, pushes again, and groans as they fall into a steady rhythm.

Just as the undead thinks that they’ve found a way to breathe properly around his cock, Lautrec wrenches their head to the side and pushes them to the ground once more. He holds them there, a foot pressing down on their ribs, as he retrieves a shotel. His foot lifts but the undead is more than willing to remain prone; he lightly kicks their legs apart before lowering to kneel over them. Their undergarments pull tight against their hips before tearing on the shotel’s tip. The undead can’t decide if they want to focus more on the glinting sharpness of his blade or the still spit-wet erection that he’s guiding to their entrance—

The undead hisses in pain, gritting their teeth as he slides in. The penetration did not hurt but the gauntleted hand digging deep into their shoulder does. The combination of sensations makes the undead writhe. They aren’t sure if Lautrec is aware of how tightly he is gripping them—the undead can hear him swearing heatedly in his helm as he slowly pushes his hips up to be flush against theirs. He stays fully inside them for a few long moments, adjusting to the sensations, while the feeling of fullness makes the undead feel dizzy with warmth.

“Gods.” Lautrec pulls out, takes a deep breath, and thrusts back in. “ _Gods_!”

The undead couldn’t help but agree. They would have to offer genuine thanks to Fina at some point. The combination of the sharp pain by his hands and the jolts of arousal with each snap of his hips has them delirious. His fingers drag down their chest, leaving welts that trace with a thin line of blood. The undead bucks erratically, seeking sensation but unable to coherently match his pace. They shudder heavily when his metal gauntlet grips them by the neck and holds them down. Their own hand lifts to rest upon his, more likely to help maintain his choking grasp than try to pull him away.

He finishes loudly, spilling over their thighs and onto the floor when he pulls out; they can hear him catching his breath in between curses. The hold on their neck is removed and they watch him sit back and put his hands on his knees.

The undead begins to prop themselves up on their elbows but Lautrec shoves them back down before pulling off the armor on his left hand. “I’m not done yet.”

His fingers push inside and the undead blurts out something incomprehensible, an exhortation of pleasure as he hits against something that is rapidly taking them to the edge. When they appear too close he slows and instead strokes them lightly, causing the undead to whine shamelessly.

“ _Please_ , please just—just get on with it!” They reach down as if to finish the job themselves but he smacks their hand away.

“Done already?” His voice is rough and teasing. “Are you quite sure?”

They nod but throw their head back as he seems to redouble his efforts. They close their eyes, feeling their arousal quickly climb to its peak and go hurtling into the dark beyond, their body flooding with thick satisfaction—

Their eyes snap open at the prick of pain in their abdomen and they see the tip of the shotel dig in and slide along the lower curve of their belly—

They see their blood-slicked useless organs pushing out from the wound and it’s like a waterfall of agony pouring into them, fully miscible with the lingering pleasure to the point that the undead can’t tell which is which—

They reform at the bonfire, clothed and re-armored but wild-eyed and disheveled. They ghost a hand over their withered, now hollowed-out stomach and can still feel the burst of pain haunting their innards.

The reality of the exchange makes them glance warily towards the stairwell leading to the firekeeper. The undead is utterly unsure of how to face the knight after such an encounter. They hesitate upon the top step before descending.

Lautrec is still in the elevator chamber, restrapping his armor as the undead pauses in the entranceway.

“Who would have thought,” he says glibly, “that you’d make such a great sheath as well as a lamb.”

Embarrassment twists in with an odd pride at his satisfaction. They look away and clear their throat. “I’ll be back in a while. There’s no need to do that again if you do not want to.”

“I’ll have to see what whims take me, then.”

“I know you take your dealings with Fina seriously. I don’t want to do anything that you think would befoul them.”

“ _Befoul_ them?” He finishes replacing the leather pleats and crosses his arms. “I am sure that Fina, in her infinite grace, will accept contribution even from a creature as debauched as yourself. Especially if I get to indulge in your punishment as well.”

The undead is tongue-tied as Lautrec approaches them. He pauses, lifts their chin with one gauntleted finger, and leans towards them. “If you wish to continue this, then have no worry in doing so. I lose nothing by making you beg.”

His hand drops to his side; the undead looks askance and murmurs something akin to agreement. Lautrec snorts a laugh and brushes past them. The undead jumps as he smacks their rear before ascending the stairwell.

They stand in the dim chamber for a long while before leaving.

* * *

It’s a dizzying cycle that the undead isn’t sure they can get used to. When they both feel inclined to do so, which is more often than not, the undead finds themselves pressed against the wall with a parrying dagger to their throat and their legs spread wide. Lautrec’s intent with the dagger is more for intimidation than anything else but the occasional prick against their collarbone sends thin rivulets of blood trailing down their chest. The undead finds watching their progress hypnotic and is utterly entranced when some particularly far-reaching streaks are smeared by Lautrec adjusting his grip on their abdomen.

He usually finishes first but seems to find amusement in continuing his manipulations. In one particularly memorable encounter he uses a torn strip of their undershirt to bind their arms behind them. With one foot pressing on the small of their back, he pulls roughly at the tie, wrenching at their shoulders; their muscles burn exquisitely. His foot lowers and pushes between their legs; he lets them try and rut against him all while making them strain against the binding. When he decides that they need assistance finishing, he drops the cloth but leaves them tied. He presses his palm against them and they whine.

“Shall I?”

They nod breathlessly. When they seem to be at their peak he holds the shotel to their neck and asks again. “Shall I?”

On most occasions, they assent and the spiraling sensations of pain and orgasm and rebirth consumes them. In rare instances, they shake their head, gripped with a sudden fear; some lost instinct from a time long ago when they were not afflicted with immortality rearing its head and making them nearly lose their built-up arousal. The first time it happens his helm tilts inquisitively and his hands go still. He does not ask for clarification but the silence betrays his curiosity.

“Just finish it,” they finally say, gesturing vaguely downwards. “Then after. Please.”

He merely shrugs and returns to fingering them; after they come he wipes his hands off on their hips and pats them twice. “Finally got your fill?”

The undead lets out a long breath through their nose. “No. Just not this time.”

He makes a quiet, thoughtful noise before standing and beginning to dress. “And here I was thinking you only liked me for my weaponry.”

The undead watches him, their thoughts murky and fractured. They finally speak just as he finishes replacing his gauntlets.

“Thank you. For listening, that is.”

He laughs. “No need for thanks. We both aim to please, now, don’t we?”

The undead sits up and ignores their sorely overworked muscles as they shuffle through their discarded armor. They find their sword and hand it to Lautrec hilt-first. He shakes his head and pushes it away.

Panic makes their guts plummet. “Gods, you aren’t--? I can still--”

“I’m not going to touch your precious firekeeper,” he snaps. He takes a moment, calms himself, and continues with a much more even tone. “We can save your sacrifice for a later date.”

“Oh.” They’re washed with both relief and embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “No matter. Just bring twice as much humanity next time.”

The undead is nodding in agreement when he laughs. “I’m _joking!_ ”

* * *

The next time they return they have thrice the humanity as usual. He gives them a look of shock when they return from the bonfire, freshly un-hollowed, and the undead grins.

“Plenty of people want assistance in that damnable fortress,” they explain.

“Sen’s?” His tone grows more incredulous. “What are you doing in _Sen’s_?”

“Forging a path up the mountain,” they explain. “I’m leaving for Anor Londo.”

He stares at them and they shrug.

“I’ll be gone for quite a while, so I thought I would pay my dues ahead of time.” The undead approaches him with the closest thing they can manage to a saunter. “I’ve a bit left in me yet. If you want it, that is.”

Lautrec snickers and places a hand on their hip. “I suppose I can indulge you. Why not take a seat?”

They smile and lower to the ground. Lautrec sits behind them and draws them close against his chest.

“So you’re off to Anor Londo,” he says plainly, calmly conversational even as his hand dips inside the undead’s trousers.

“I am,” they say quickly before their breath hitches while he finds a steady rhythm.

“I rest assured that you’ll have a fine time there. How do you plan on approaching the City of the Gods, hm? I’ve heard tell of two guardians of Gwyn’s cathedral. Dragonslayer whomsuch and Executioner never-you-mind.”

“I’m sure they’re fine warriors,” they reply. They chew the inside of their cheek to keep from moaning.

“I have no doubt. I’ve heard that the one is a bit of a sadist. Perhaps you should steer clear…unless you want to test your luck.”

“I’m only going—I’m going in order to retrieve the Lordvessel.”

“Oh, but of course. I’m only saying that you may find yourself speared at both ends—and I don’t mean with steel. At first, at least.”

The undead cries out and clenches their thighs around his hand. Lautrec barks out a laugh.

“By the gods—really?” His tone is teasing, incredulous.

“It isn’t a wholly disagreeable idea,” they manage to stammer.

He chuckles. “You’re strange.”

“Maybe so.” The undead twists around in his lap and presses their mouth against his jaw. He lets them trail downwards, pushing their lips against his neck, his chest, his hips—one hand lifts to grip at their hair as they crawl back and put their head between his legs.

* * *

After they’re both thoroughly satisfied—with the undead having made quite a few trips down from the bonfire—the two sit leaning back against the stone wall and simply coexist.

“I really may be gone for a long time,” the undead finally says. “I don’t know what will happen in the city.”

“I suppose I’ll have to be patient,” Lautrec replies flatly. “The gods know there’s nobody else in this forsaken kingdom to fuck.”

The undead looks at him sidelong. “Don’t feel like trying your luck with that sadsack upstairs?”

He snorts. The undead taps their chin in thought. “Have you met the young man from Vinheim?”

“I am _not_ going to try and seduce some stuck-up assassin’s apprentice—”

The undead smirks. “What about that knight chasing after the sun, he seems rather nice—”

Lautrec waves a shotel at them. “I’ll slit your throat, don’t you doubt it.”

They groan and lean their head against the wall. “Gods, no more of that.”

* * *

In the absence of any concrete linear time, the undead is not sure how long it takes them to return to the shrine—they only know that they’re a few lord souls richer. They had persevered in defeating the crystalline dragon and the hideous demon-spawning bed hidden deep within the caverns of Izalith. Their next intended targets were the drowned kings of New Londo and the Gravelord of the catacombs.

They stopped in the shrine predominantly to interact with the mute firekeeper. They sat crosslegged in front of her cavern and spoke quietly.

“In the city, I met another much like you. A firekeeper. She wore armor of brass and carried a sword. She was free to travel and converse as she wished.”

If the young woman was listening, the undead could not tell. They leaned forward and placed a softly luminous prism stone just beyond the metal bars locking her away.

“I am going to try to fill the lordvessel and find the First Flame. If I am successful, the world could become a better place. If you want to leave this…this cage, then give this stone to the knight that often sits near here. I am going to instruct him that it means you wish to be freed. You may be bound to the fire but you could sit above and converse with those who visit your flames, if you so desired.”

They had focused upon the stone while speaking but when they hazard a glance upwards the firekeeper is staring directly at them with wide eyes.

* * *

“And you’re trusting me to keep my word?” Lautrec’s tone is doubtful but the undead places a hand on his shoulder and nods.

“You _are_ a knight, are you? There must be one mote of chivalry in you somewhere. If she gives you the stone, go get that blacksmith over in the Parish. I’ve told him of the plan as well. He’ll know a way to remove the bars.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then let her remain.”

“You might not return from this First Flame endeavor,” he says. “How do you know she won’t end up dead when people realize you aren’t coming back? How do you know _I_ won’t kill her?”

The undead gently grasps his hand and places it against their neck. “I am trusting you with her life just as I trust you with mine. If I don’t come back, protect her. This place is too important to let it fade to ash.”

He is silent for a long while; the undead lowers their hand but it takes a moment more for his to fall. “No promises,” he says dryly.

“I didn’t expect any,” they respond, “but thank you for listening.”

* * *

The undead does not return. The firekeeper hands Lautrec the stone. Even the permanently gruff Andre seems a bit pensive as he removes the bars from the cavern entrance.

The firekeeper is wide-eyed, pale, and disheveled; she leans heavily against Lautrec as he assists her up the stairwell. She takes a seat upon the outer lip of the bonfire circle and stares into the flames as if she has never seen them before.

Lautrec leaves the shrine, aimless and full of an odd sense of equilibrium; something lost and something gained, he supposes. He binds himself to his faith in Fina and sets off in search of offerings.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a contractually obligated Depeche Mode reference (Songs of Faith and Devotion). Thanks for reading!


End file.
